


The Empire's Trophy

by one_more_knight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Altered Mental States, Aphrodisiacs, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Excessive amount of come, F/M, Galra Empire, Galra Trash Party, Gang Rape, Gladiators, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Shiro, Inapropriate Use Of Automail, Kink Meme, Large Cock, Loss of Control, M/M, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, No main character dies within this fanwork, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Other, Oviposition, PWP, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shiro cries, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stretching, Tentacles, Voyeurism, Xeno, bondage (held down)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_knight/pseuds/one_more_knight
Summary: Where Shiro deliberately looses a match, gets caught, and is punished by being passed around to everyone he lost to before, to the enjoyment of the crowd. Sendak and his monster cock takes the last ride. Featuring violence, alien morphology and tentacles. Inspired by the kink meme prompt: "Shiro is forced to fight again after he becomes the "champion" and he learns that gladiator matches aren't the only kind of entertainment demanded of prisoners. In this fight, the loser is subjected to more personal humiliations for the entertainment of the crowd.Basically, Shiro loses the match and ends up being passed around to all takers."





	

Shiro falls to the arena floor, coughing blood. His opponent laughs and aims a kick to his face. 

Fighting back his instincts, Shiro curls up so that the boot connects with his flank instead. He grunts and rolls with it. Shiro's assessment of this fighter told him they rarely kill in the arena, which is why Shiro chose this fight to balance his wins. It doesn't mean he won't be beaten to a pulp. 

Shiro rises to his hands and knees and his opponent's next kick sends him tumbling several meters away. His vision blurs. 

As if through a tunnel, he hears his opponent gloat, preening for a booing crowd. Shiro's head throbs.

Small, long-fingered hands close around his bicep, forcing Shiro upright. The noise of the crowd dims, but Shiro can't tell if it's because he's blacking out or because someone important showed up. Imperial Guard officials sometimes show up at the end of rounds to judge if the victor is worthy of being transferred to their invasion teams. They watch from above, perched safely on a platform overseeing the arena, consulting the fighter's statistics scrolling down the giant screens around the stadium. 

Shiro is glad he chose to loose this fight, even as he wishes they would hurry up. He wants to go back to his cell and rest. 

Shiro risks a glance upward to see who has come this time. He'll add it to his accumulated data about the Galra Empire's army hierarchy. Except this time it isn't one of the usual Imperial Guard Generals, it's Commander Sendak himself. And instead of congratulating the winner, he's frowning down at Shiro. Shiro looks away and tries to look pathetic. It isn't hard in his current state.

"You've beaten much better fighters two spins ago." Sendak says. Shiro winces. It's true.

Sendak jumps down into the ring and grabs Shiro's chin, forcing him to look up. Sendak studies his face a moment, bionic eye trying to peer into Shiro's soul. "You've been holding out on us."

Shiro closes his eyes and swallows. He can't deny it.

He figured out early on there's a science to winning and losing, and ever since he's skirted the edges. Shiro won _often_ so as to have enough food rations for his cell mates and himself. But he avoided winning _too_ often, loosing to less-likely-to-be-deadly opponents so as to avoid being recruited and forced to slaughter innocent creatures. To kill more than he already has. He's only done it a few times, and always made the fight look good, real, with people as close to his own skill level as he could manage. 

Shiro hoped no one would notice. Sendak clearly just figured it out. Perhaps Shiro had overestimated this fighter, or Shiro had improved beyond his self-assessment. Perhaps Sendak was a lot more observant than his single-minded focus made him look like.

Sendak's electromagical arm buzzes and Shiro thinks _shit, he's going to execute me_. He raises his arms to protect himself but the blow still sends him careening into one of the large rocks littering the ring. Shiro hears a bone crack.

He doesn't have time to fall to the floor. Sendak is already there, pressing him to the rock by his throat as Shino's feet scramble to find purchase and alleviate the pressure. He feels like a pinned Earth bug specimen under Sendak's scrutiny.

"It is rude to lie to those who fight you, _Rising Champion_. You have disrespected your opponents, the audience, and Emperor Zarkon." Sendak doesn't sound angry.

The audience pays very good money for these 'shows', and in Shiro's opinion they should be the ones fighting down here so he can show them what respect really means. He knows better than to say this out-loud though. Instead, he bares his teeth at Sendak. 

Sendak smirks and tightens his grip. Shiro wheezes as his oxygen flow cuts off. "Don't worry, you'll make it up to them." Sendak croons. 

It's the last thing Shiro hears before he passes out.

***

Shiro comes to with a gasp, heart thumping loudly in his chest. Not much time can have passed because he's still in the arena, and the audience grows bored very quickly. Shiro once saw a pair of fighters executed because their battle was judged "too boring". 

A Druid is standing over Shiro, arms outstretched. It's the closest the Imperial army has to a medical team and them coming near anyone has never led to anything good. Black tendrils are encircling Shiro's body. He feels... strange.

Above, on the podium, Sendak is announcing something being auto-translated in several languages to the wildly cheering crowd. Shiro catches the suffix for "sex" and the word for "fighters", from what little he learned from fellow prisoners in their cells. He can't focus enough to understand more, because his whole body pulses with a dark, unnatural energy. 

The Druid finishes whatever she was doing to his body and merges back into shadows. There's a warmth spreading from Shiro's loins to his limbs, heating his blood. His pain grows distant, replaced with an urgency to move, move, move. 

He wobbles to his feet and gets instantly dizzy. His heart is beating hard against the inside of his aching ribs.

Shiro shakes his head to clear it, breathing out through his mouth and taking stock of his surroundings. He doesn't like what he finds. 

Along the wall of the arena, near the entrance, there's a lineup of fighters watching him. A specific line-up of familiar people. Dread pools in Shiro's belly as he realises every single one is someone Shiro lost to. Most of them are adopting a tense, anticipatory stance, translated into their different morphology. One's tentacle-like appendages are swishing back and forth with excitement. 

Shiro notices a few faces are missing - two of them people he had faked his loss with, meaning they are possibly dead through another fight - but there's still too many of them, if he has to fight them all over again, as he suspects is the case. He can't help but notice none of the customary weapons have been left in the arena.

"Begin!" Sendak yells, and the crowd explodes into jeers and thumping. The first fighter in line is big and resembles a crow, bipedal, with wicked talons on its wingtips and feet. It rushes forward. 

Shiro shifts positions, ready to dodge, and tries to remember what this opponent's fighting style was like. He thinks this one likes to immobilise his foe before using his claw to shred them to pieces. Shiro jumps aside, deftly avoiding the bird's attack and turning around mid-step, ready to throw a punch, but a wave of dizziness overtakes him and he falls to his knees instead, holding his head. His blood is a loud torrent in his ears, drowning the crowd.

Feet with fingers as long as Shiro's forearms stop in front of him. Claws grip Shiro's hair and yank his head up. He yells, hands coming up to grab the bird's foot. Its beak clicks in front of Shiro's face menacingly, and he's sure it's about to cut his nose off. Except.. It doesn't. The bird's hooded black eyes inspect Shiro up and down in stilted jerks of its head. Shiro reads something like curiosity in the tilt of its body. The bird caws in satisfaction. 

Shiro casts his eyes around for a weapon, a loose rock at arm's reach, anything, and... _What the...._

He's hard. Not a semi from an adrenaline rush, not just his dick bundling up in the prisoner's uniform, but filled-up and undeniably erect. Now that he sees it, he can feel it too, a throbbing need unfurling in his loins.

Movement makes Shiro look up. The crow is ruffling its feathers, and… it's hard too. From a tuff of shorter feathers on its lower belly protubes a long, thick, pointy and glistening appendage that cannot be anything but a penis. 

Suddenly, Shiro can take a pretty good guess on how he'll 'pay back' his faked losses and it doesn't involve fighting all these creatures. He also guesses the spells the Druid put on him will keep him awake and physically eager for all of it. The idea makes his other racing thoughts scatter into nothingness.

Shiro's mind goes completely blank for an awful second. Then he lashes out. 

He drives upwards, slamming his head into the bird's, followed by a solid punch to its feathery underbelly. The bird staggers back, but Shiro's momentum completes his swing a little too quickly for Shiro's messed up balance and lancing head. He crumbles to the floor in a heap, body heaving as the world liquefies around him. Shapes bleed into one another, the floor, the ceiling lights, the bird approaching again - no. 

Wings flap and a burst of wind has Shiro rolling head over heels to land on his back. A clawed feet curls around his bruised throat and sharp nails dig into neck in a very clear warning. The bird tilts its head at him, then squats to nest over Shiro's face. 

The bird isn't heavy as much as it is massive and thickly coated. Shiro's hands scramble at the oily feathers, tearing out a few but failing to find a good grip at this angle. Shiro's feet kick into empty air. 

Shiro opens his mouth and chokes on feathers. He shakes his head furiously to wriggle away. Something firm and warm slaps against his cheek. The bird's penis. 

Shiro turns his head away, but the bird chitters and grinds down on him, rocking its cock across Shiro's face. The movement is graceless but effective, as the bird strokes itself off Shiro, sliding on the bridge of his nose or over his clenched shut eyelids. It leaks abundantly, too, stickyness on Shiro's cheek and into his hair. One shift gets thick goo up Shiro's nose, and Shiro sneezes it out, which seems to please the bird. Another pass has the cock catching on Shiro's lips and he gets a leak of bitter, sulfuric flavor to go with the rank musk smell. Shiro snaps his teeth blindly. He sadly misses his target, but the bird must feel his attempt because it tightens its grip on his throat and veers to rub on Shiro's temple and ear instead. 

It finds a rhythm and rubs itself more vigorously, each jab scraping Shiro's shoulders along the rough ground. Shiro focuses on that and on keeping what little air he can get in as the considerable weight shifts over him. Can Shiro really do this for everyone? Shiro can't think about that. This is just another fight he has to lose yet survive through. He has to keep fighting, or they'll make the others fight instead. 

Shiro breathes shallowly.

When the bird climaxes, its ejaculate is blue-grey and steaming, burning like battery acid down Shiro's right shoulder. His protective battle clothing catches most of it but some spots must have ripped or thinned from the friction with the ground because it feels like some of his skin is melting. 

Shiro wrenches his head aside to avoid further splashing droplets. The spell muffles pain but he can still smell some of his hair and skin singe. 

The bird steps up and leaves. 

Shiro immediately curls up on himself, batting at his shoulder the tiny spots in fire. He breathes in huge gulps of air and trembles all over. He realises he's still hard, and a laugh gurgles out of him. 

The crowd is clapping.

Before Shiro's ready - not that he'd ever be ready for this - a pair of hands closes on his ankles and drags him out of protective stance. 

***

The next fighter standing over Shiro is a classic Bernian, husks framing his gleaming teeth. Shiro fought against several fighters of this race; as a recently conquered military continent they are in good physical shape and more than ready to fight their way up the relative freedom chain.

This one has bloodlust going for him, too. He's already palming its groin, undoing his belt and stepping out of his pants. Shiro wonders if the Druid roofied the attackers too. 

The Bernian positions Shiro flat on his back by his ripped shirt, easily deflecting Shiro's delayed defensive moves.

Shiro's back scrapes against the dirty floor, grinding more dirt into skinned shoulders. His left arm is a distant fiery burn glistening where the bird's come dripped on skin, but Shiro's left arm still obeys him. He aims for the Bernian's eye sockets but he evades the blow. Shiro throws some dirt up as a distraction then catches him by the tusk. Shiro intends to wrench the menacing head aside, but the tusk have serrated edges that cut into Shiro's hand. It isn't a Bernian feature and wasn't there last time Shiro fought him; this individual must have carved notches into his own tusks as extra weapons since then.

Shiro hisses and cradles his bleeding hand close to his chest. The wound isn't deep but it smarts like nothing else, and Shiro dimly hopes he hasn't been poisoned on top of things.

The Bernian doesn't let him inspect the new injury. Deftly, he pinches Shiro's prisoner uniform between blunt, strong fingers and tugs until it rips at the seams where the heat regulator pads are sewn in. The clothes tears from knee to ribs and gapes open obscenely, stretched remaining strands framing pale fragile skin. Cold arena air hits Shiro's exposed groin and he shudders all over. His erection stands out from his black pubic hair, engorged and flushed, foreskin starting to pull back revealing a tender darker tip. Shiro has never been body shy but the crassness of this humiliation makes his blood boil and he has no doubt he's blushing in angry splotches. 

The crowd's wild jeers grow impossibly louder. 

Shiro clenches his eyes shut, wishing for this to be one of his frequent nightmares instead. Except he can't escape the reality of this. His senses are filled with the smell and taste of the bird's ejaculate, while his whole body pulses in a confusing mix of pain and desire. Behind his closed eyelids, it looks like the overhead lights have drenched the world in red. Shiro is uncomfortably reminded that no matter how much he hurts now, the Zarkon army can and will always find a way to make him hurt more if he doesn't give them what they want... And sometimes even if he does. 

Running is not an option if you have nowhere to run to, and every time Shiro closes his eyes Earth feels farther away. 

He opens his eyes. 

The Bernian fighter is looming over Shiro, removing the last of his own clothes. As with most ring fighters he's humanoid, muscles bound in thick rhino-like purple skin, but while Shiro knows the race is gendered from the slurs they throw in the canteen, he has no clue what to make of their sexual attributes. This individual has multiple rough-looking bumps on his crotch area with a hollowed dip in front, framed by mandibles. Shiro has no idea how the Bernian view intercourse, much less rape, and is terrified he's about to find out.

Yet, Shiro is in no position to fight. In their last match, this guy had left a gutted Shiro barely conscious on the floor. 

Shiro needs to buy himself time. His feet scrambles on the floor in a wobbly attempt to get away. The creature chases him around a little, prolonging the show, but it catches him quickly in a vicious tackle. 

Flipping him around, the Bernian straddles Shiro and he cringes. 

His sexual mounds are hard planes covered by fatty tissues, and they are cold against Shiro's pulsing cock. The shock of cool is a blessed relief for a split second, then Shiro recoils against his own body, betrayed all over again. The freezing mandibles are excited and fluttering between them, weaving with one another and into every nook they can reach. A couple curl around Shiro's dick to dance around his balls, and he bucks wildly at the sensation, biting his lips to keep quiet and staring, unseeing, at the illuminated ceiling. 

The fighter undulates and thrashes against Shiro, clearly purchasing his own pleasure via friction and heat exchange. His blunt fingers are holding Shiro down by the waist, bruising and uncaring. One is pressing into what is probably a cracked rib and it hurts to breath. 

Shiro tries to push that arm away, but his grip is feeble and slick with blood. The Bernian notices and he catches Shiro's injured hand, bringing it up to his lips. Shiro stares in horror as he laps Shiro's oozing blood, obviously savoring the taste. A wave of nausea hits Shiro and he gulps down bile. Then the creature clamps his mouth along the split open skin and _sucks_. 

Shiro's blood boils over, his stomach flips, his head spins. White-hot pain morphs into the incredible, horrible sensation of all of Shiro's insides feel suctioned and processed through his injury.

Shiro yells. He comes like a trainwreck. 

The mouth on his hand has a direct line to his cock. It is forced to spill out in waves, a miserable wrenching orgasm that on and on. Shiro writhes on the floor, hating every second of it. Tears and sweat roll down his thrown back head and wet his temple even as his shout breaks into a grieving sob. 

The Bernian roars in pleasure and ruts down faster against Shiro, raking his large fingers into the streaks of come Shiro created on his own belly, until he finally seems to climax as well. 

Shiro is left empty. He's aware coldness burn welts are blooming on his groin and legs, but there's nothing he can do about it. Shiro can't do anything. His arms, normally his best weapons, are useless, lying at his sides; his spent dick hasn't even softened all the way; and there are still over a dozen creatures literally waiting in line to take a turn at him. 

Above, the Bernian has risen up. It is displaying its sperm covered hand to the crowd. A victor's trophy. 

In the back, the large panel usually showing battle scores is displaying stats about them. There's a tally showing the equivalent of "2 to 1" with characters Shiro can guess at. A rough, desperate laugh escapes him.

Then Shiro yields his eyes with his bleeding hand, and tries to be as quiet as possible. He's gotten good at it on this spaceship.

He doesn't cries.

***

The Bernian fighter takes his time leaving the battlefield. The next attacker in line has to strides up and elbow him playfully off the main stage area. They jokingly wrestle for a little bit, trading chirps. Shiro's mind is foggy, but he's pretty sure he remembers these two sharing meals in the food mess. Their species look very similar.

They end their fooling around by slapping their tusks together, and Shiro bites his tongue to quench the jealousy coursing through him. This is the most affection he's seen anyone display in public in weeks, if not months. Not since his teammates have been transferred to another division, something non-fighting.

The new opponent is as no-nonsense about her manhandling as the previous one was, and she clearly had time to think of a plan. She flips Shiro around, careless about smacking his face into the dirt. Blunt fingers tug meanly at Shiro's hips and force him to rise onto elbows and knees. His arms are too shaky to be of any use in taking the weight, so he mostly just does his best to pillow his head on his forearms. 

It takes more concentration than it should. Shiro's limbs are alien and distant from his brain. The cold shock of the creature's mounts and writhing mandibles against his butt jolts Shiro out of his self-absorption.

_What if you made this end quicker?_

The thought creeps into Shiro's brain and makes camp there. Fighting back clearly won't do any good, and his cut hand aches are much as his treacherously-rising-again cock. 

_What if this is just another performance?_

Shiro freezes as everything inside him debates the idea. What small pieces of the earthly scientist still inside of him proposes it's a theory worth testing, at this point. His survival oriented humanity wants to preserve what he has of himself left to live another day. The body he's occupying needs to come, sleep, and heal. 

All of him want to _stop hurting_. 

He's sick of fighting all the time. Of being the strongest, of putting aside his needs, of not admitting the nagging reality stabbing his heart every time he's pushed back into the ring: 

No one is coming to save him. If he wants to be free, or set others free, he'll have to do it himself. He can't do that if he's dead. He has to play along, and win at the games however he can, gain their approval.

The creature is rumping against his backside, a relentless punishing pace. Shiro grits his teeth and lets her.

The force behind each push slides Shiro forward a little but she quickly tugs him back. This fighter is loud, more showy than the other one, and Shiro can't tell if any of it is natural or if she's playing up the audience. In a grim way, Shiro approves. 

He's not sure what she's doing but it must look enjoyable for the crowd. After a small eternity, she wraps an arm around Shiro and lifts him up like a ragdoll. Shiro wriggles in her grasps to relieve pressure on his aching ribs. 

Then she takes hold of Shiro's cock. Pleasure rakes knife-sharp along Shiro's spine, and he arcs into the grip. Shiro doesn't hold back a groan, face distorted in a mix of pain and ecstasy. 

She's squeezing a little too tight but Shiro can't care anymore. He pushes his need to come to the foreground of his mind and lets it overwhelms everything else. The spell the Druids put on him make it disturbingly easy. He pumps his cock into that obliging hand, and makes certain to rub his ass on the hard-soft bumps behind him on the upswing. The creature jerks him off like it matters, and Shiro is close, so close, breaths rough and sweat dripping down his nose. 

The creature finishes first. She rushes against him and shouts her completion, tightening her grip painfully around Shiro's middle, before dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. She salutes the stadium and leaves.

Shiro, meanwhile, lands on his bad hand and cries out. He flops to his side and curls around it in pain. He grits out every curse he knows in three Earth languages and the handful more he learned in his captivity here. His raging hard-on barely softens, and he curses the whole universe about that, too. She bows to the stadium and leaves.

***

Another combatant steps up, and they fuck Shiro's mouth. 

Shiro closes his eyes, slackens his jaw and imagines they are anyone else, anywhere else. It proves to be very hard. The taste is vile and the creature's protubing member has nooks that catch at Shiro's wide-stretched lips, eventually tearing them at the corner and scraping his tongue raw. Blood, drool and procreation fluids drip down Shiro's chin. 

If he opened his eyes, he knows he'd see the large overhead screen projecting close-ups of what he looks like for the crowd's entertainment. His body can't be anything but a painting of bruises, grime and drying fluids. The being has secured Shiro's wrists to his front, clasped between two of its legs while the others hold his head steady. 

This contestant stops with its member lodged deep into Shiro's throat, so far he can't even gag on it. Then he feels bumps traveling down the tube, push thickly into his esophagus. He tugs at his arms but he can't move. He whimpers aloud to starve off panic. 

When the thing pulls out, Shiro gulps in air for a whole minute before he gives in to the nausea. He retches and gelatinous blobs come out. Shiro is pretty sure it's eggs. He hacks until bile comes up, and would have dry heaved all night, but it's the turn of another opponent to use him as it wishes. 

This one uses him against a rock. Shiro knows her name, gender and that she has siblings slaving as cooks on the ship, because they shared a few meals before he was scheduled to fight her. They had discussed their fight, made a game of designing it to look good. Both had walked away with minimal scarring and received good credits. 

She probably doesn't want to hurt him, but she's smart. She's aware of this round's rules as much as he is, and right now the most important one is: don't get caught. His punishment is a warning to everyone.

So she fucks him with her flexible membrane right up his ass, a mimicry of the way they had sex one night, and he screams to makes sure no one knows she's actually being gentle. It hurts almost as much as if she didn't bother.

***

More fighters pass over him, and Shiro disconnects for large patches of it. Whatever the druid did to him to distance the pain and privilege pleasure slowly wears off. 

A pair of two small beings of a similar species clamber on his back and rut against him, jeering loudly and throwing slurs at him. They are way too weak to be arena fighters, and jewels glint around their necks. They're spectators. Shiro wonders how much they paid to have a go at him.

He bucks them free and lunges at them, intending to kill them. He gets a good knifehand chop at one, but a Druid's magic freezes his body before he can do anything else.

They renew the spell. 

Shiro writhes on the floor and comes onto his own face even as the two small spectators kick his legs and call him names. He obligingly rolls over, after, and lets them finish off without attempting anything else. 

They hand him a bottle and he drinks it without question, sipping slowly because he's too tired to gulp it down. His body is a ball of conflicting nerve screams wrapped in the haze of exhaustion. They take away the bottle and Shiro whimpers, his lips chasing after it. Someone pushes their external orgam in his mouth instead. He blows them.

Another person's aedeagus connects with Shiro's penis and sucks. Glands are oozing gel around their connection. Shiro groans and laughs, high on magic and pain. He recognises this reproduction type from a crude joke someone told him last month. "Not female, can't," he rasps out to the fighter. The fighter's feverish gaze meets his and he winks. "They don't know that." 

Shiro laughs again and kisses him in thanks. After a surprised pause, the guy kisses back, exploring Shiro's mouth. When his forked tongue flicks over the roof of Shiro's mouth, he comes. The guy kisses him on the lips one last time and departs. He was almost nice.

The next fighter isn't. Shiro licks his lip to remember the taste of kindness and holds on to that for the next few people.

He ejaculates another time somewhere in there but his dick is finally slow to fill back up. 

His right arm is dark and swollen. It won't bend anymore. No one cares, not even Shiro.

***

Shiro looses count of how many times he comes, and he refuses to check at the tally blinking obnoxiously in the corner of his vision. 

What he knows is that his dick chafes from all the manhandling and the repeated denied-then-forced orgasms. 

His balls tense on nothing, hot and empty. 

Shiro's eyes are dry and his lips reopen the cut in the corner every time he screams. Corporal fluids have dried up and cracked in every crease of his body. One foe has stained a handprint's width of Shiro's skin a shade of green, while another has left a path of singed body hair. A booed fighter left a shimmer of pollen all over his legs. Every time sweat mixes with the bird's leftover seed it corrodes new blotches of skin raw.

***

When he clocks back in, Shiro is being washed. A small swarm of trembling little Bug-people are wiping off grime and unspeakable filth from his face, torso and limbs with wet cloths. They discard the flimsy remains of his uniform and carefully turn him on his side to start over on his back. He twitches when they clean cuts and burns, his ass, but he doesn't object, too busy drowsing in the unbelievable goodness of being clean again. He sighs, distantly wondering if he died, after all. 

Then the world shifts. Long, thick translucent vines curl around his limbs and picks him up from the floor. Something about it is strange, new, and Shiro realises that it's because they are mindful of his injuries, avoiding him major discomfort. The air is cool on his newly washed skin.

Shiro watches the ground grow distant as the tentacles lift him high, spreading his limbs apart, and he wonders at the strength in them, despite their flexibility. If the vague, bulbous body they are attached to wants to, it could assuredly tear his limbs out on by one, like wings off a butterfly. 

The tentacles spins Shiro in a slow circle. He guesses this person is showing him off to the crowd, as another has done, up high on a rock for all the camera to zoom on and capture every twitch and every sound escaping him. The arena is very big, after all. Small and bigger lights flash into the darkness, stars in a void. 

It's when a large, clawed hand cups his chin that Shiro realises they've come to a stop. His eyelashes flutter open to Commander Sendak's intense mismatched stare. He's studying Shiro just like he did before he presented him to his fighters like a buffet to starving wolves, an eternity ago. 

Blood rushes to Shiro's head as a wave of fear ices his internal organs and abruptly wakes him up. His heart starts beating too fast inside his battered ribcage, a panicked bird needing to take flight. He has no clue if Sendak has stayed there since the beginning or if he went away and came back. Shiro doesn't know how much time as passed, or if any has passed at all. The glow of Sendak's gold cybernetic eye seems to grow until it blanks out Shiro's vision. 

"Prepare him for me," Sendak orders.

Shiro's limbs are shaking in the creature's hold. He breaks his stare away from Sendak and has to blink the dark spots away, slowly regaining sense of the world around him and… in him. 

A tentacle is probing at Shiro's abused asshole. It is oozing something that makes its breach into Shiro's body slick and easy. It slides into him slow and unrepenting, just going in, and in, and in. Shiro thinks he can feel it through his abs, and his stomach clenches as his cock attempts to rise again. It hurts. 

"The rising _Champion_ has almost finished paying his dues. His body was clearly meant for this." Sendak is addressing the crowd. His low, gravelly voice sounds like thunder in the torrential white noise filling Shiro's ears. He tries to focus on breathing and tunes out the speech. 

Shiro is afraid he knows what Sendak requires out of him at this point, because he has no fight left to give the audience. Sendak is cunning, ruthlessly selfish despite his practicality, and if he could stand up, Shiro would barely reach him mid-chest. In his star-spread, defeated limpness, Shiro looks positively puny next to the Commander. The audience is expecting one last show from him. 

Another tentacle penetrates Shiro and he groans, dropping his head to gulp in ragged breaths. 

The stretch is too much, too soon, but if it's all he has before Sendak forces his no-doubt enormous cock inside of him, it'll have to do. His ass hasn't split, but it feels like it might just do that at any moment. Only his body's inability to resist anything at the moment and the copious amount of thick lubricant the tentacles are pumping into him are preventing it. Shiro can feel slick overflow the space created between the moving tentacles in him. It drips down his legs and to the ground far below. He is an entertainment engine getting oiled 

The tentacles are squelching with every thrusts inside now, dragging loud and obscene wet noises out of Shiro. From this close to the main stage, Shiro can hear the speakers spilling it all out at high volume for the anticipatory crowd. He feels both empty and engorged, in body and mind. A bowl full of stagnant hate, a skyful of black holes.

Shiro dares a glance up, and Sendak is silent, contemplating Shiro's body like it's a new ship upgrade he has to appraise. Something wriggles inside of Shiro, nudging his prostate and he shudders, turns his face away. 

The afterimage of Sendak's eyes glow distinctly even behind Shiro's closed eyelids. This awakens a spark in Shiro's emotional wasteland. A flicker of pure, obsidian black anger catching fire through the hot mess of his thoughts. Shiro lifts his head to glare at Sendak. 

"Enjoying the show?" He croaks. 

Sendak's mouth stretches into an almost smile. "Yes." 

Shiro spits in Sendak's face. It's mostly blood and other beings' leftover ejaculates, and it lands on Sendak's large ear instead of in his good eye, but Shiro milks every microliter of pleasure he gets out of watching it drip down purple fur. 

A spectator laughs, a hiccup in the crowd's sudden hush. Without looking away from Shiro, Sendak shapes his metal arm into a gun and shoots that creature in the head. 

Then he chuckles. "Good," he says, and turns around to go sit in the large padded throne presiding the stage. The audience slowly resumes their noises.

The tentacles shifts Shiro forward and release him on the dais. He sprawls near Sendak's seat like an old pet. 

"Come here, little Champion" Sendak beckons Shiro. 

He gets to his hands and feet, collapses, and gets up again on his elbows and knees. His limbs shake so badly he wobbles to the side a couple of times. It takes a long, pathetic eternity, and he leaves behind a trail of tentacle lube and blood, but eventually Shiro makes it to the foot of Sendak's throne. 

Shiro rests his head against cool engraved metal, trying to regain control of his lungs and calm the tremors rattling his frame. Sendak drops his flesh hand to pet Shiro's hair, and Shiro barely flinches, he's that tired. What little adrenaline his anger had dredged up was burned to ashes by the challenge of crawling a few paces. He could drop right there on the floor and pass out for days, if they'd let him. 

Sendak's hand is carding through Shiro's mess of a haircut. The mockery of affection is a welcomed pause in the sea of pain and humiliation. 

Shiro shakes his fuzzy head and coerces his brain into more cohesive thoughts. He has an idea of what he's expected to do next, but he worries he doesn't have the strength for it.

Sendak's hand pulls on the back of Shiro's head. Shiro rocks on his knees and falls face-first into Sendak's crotch. As a seduction move, it is awkward, but Sendak doesn't seem to mind.

In fact, Sendak is hard. And really, really big. Even discarding the layers of armored cloth covering him, he must be the width of Shiro's forearm. Proportional, as far as magically enhances alien species can be, but still way bigger than anything forced inside Shiro today. Or ever.

Shiro buries his nose into the bulge of Sendak's monster cock, nuzzling it in denial. Maybe if he can make Sendak come like this, he won't require anything else. Shiro noses into the fabric, taking in musky heat and textures. Every stroke of Shiro's chin rasps a little, and he realise enough time passed he grew some stubble. 

Sendak sweeps Shiro's bangs away from his face, his large thumb tracing over Shiro's recently healed nose scar. It feels like approval. Shiro sighs in relief. 

Sendak cuts that hope short by gripping Shiro's hair by his whitening bangs and forcing his head up, twisting his neck away from Sendak's groin. Shiro keens at his loss. 

"Do you know what I want of you?" Sendak asks. His voice echoes in Shiro's skull.

"Yes."

"Can you do it?" Sendak asks. Like English, the Galra language doesn't make a difference between 'can' meaning 'physically able to do' and the 'can' of 'willing to do'.

Shiro gulps. "I don't know," he coaxes out of his broken throat. 

Sendak is contemplative a long moment. Shiro is ashamed to realise he's cowering. Then Sendak says "We shall see," loudly, and, more quietly, "Your honesty will be rewarded."

Shiro gasps as he's picked up by Sendak's gigantic arm like a weightless kitten. He's dropped into Sendak's lap, his back to Sendak's front, legs splayed, all of him displayed. Ahead of him, the crowd's cheers are deafening and light bouncing on metal indicate where people are using their personal magnifiers to zoom in on him, as if the giant floating screens all around weren't already broadcasting everything. It's his first good look at the seating area. Shiro is pretty sure there are twice as much people in the stands now as there ever were during any of his matches. 

Behind and under him, Sendak's solid mass is radiating heat. He's springing his cock free of his armor. 

When Sendak balances Shiro forward, Shiro catches himself on the arms of the throne, ignoring the pain shooting up his injured hand, and holds tight as Sendak lowers him back down onto Sendak's cock. 

It feels absurdly huge and like it can't possible go in.

Sendak's cock's tapered tip quickly grows in size along the length, and it pokes right into Shiro's dripping, loosened, sensitive asshole, stretching him right back up to his limits. Shiro can't help it, he knows it'll only make it worst, but he goes rigid all over, clammy fear drowning what little control he still possessed over himself. His body locks down and his mouth drops open wide around silent sounds, no air getting in. 

Sendak pushes at Shiro's shoulder with his clawed hand, easing Shiro into a fold over his own raised knees, head hanging. It is the way Matt taught Shiro to hold himself when he's having a panic attack. Sendak has far more information on humans than Shiro ever guessed at, he thinks, hysterically. 

Shiro does his best to breath. Each shuddering inhale soon escapes riding a whimper. Fat tears are leaking down his face. Every inch of him is _overwhelmed_ , overturned, burning and buried alive. 

Sendak shifts their positions to slouch in his seat, pulling Shiro along to rest against his chest, while keeping his knees splayed high. Shiro's ass is even more on display, but his head rolls on Sendak's shoulder. Shiro buries his face into the warm crook of Sendak's throat, bites at the collar of his uniform. It is thick and robust beneath his teeth, musky against his tongue. He anchors himself on the taste and smell of Sendak's musk, the soft-solid mass of him around Shiro, uncarring in that second that they are enemies.

It works, and slowly, twitch by twitch, Shiro lands back into himself.

Of course, as soon as his muscle relaxes, Sendak feeds more of his cock inside Shiro. Because he's almost bent in half and it's so huge, Shiro can see part of it disappearing inside his own body. The cock has smooth ridges, each squeezed in a tally of how deep he's going.

Sendak savors the penetration the same way Shiro imagines he enjoys conquering new territory. Shiro can feel it in the hot puffs of breaths brushing his forehead, the rhythmic clench of his hands on Shiro, the jerks of hips, the deep pulse resonating through Shiro's abdomen. 

Shiro tries to bear down to ease the way but his body clamps harder on the improbable girth. 

After a few excruciating ridges forced in, know this is barely half the length he has to go, Shiro lets completely go, resting his full sluggish weight in Sendak's grip, detaching himself from his body's remaining panic. 

Sendak rumbles appreciatively and lifts Shiro up a little. Shiro's body slides easily, greased with sweat and slick on Sendak's clothed legs. Sendak unsheathes him all the way to the tip. Suction pulls an obscene, wretched noise out from where they are joined, the fit so tight it refuses to let go, and Shiro gurgles a similar noise into Sendak's collar. Holding Shiro over his dick, Sendak turns his head to growl in Shiro's ear, "Watch yourself." 

Shiro slides his gaze to the front and does. A big screen is hovering across from them and reflecting everything in vibrant details. 

Sendak's cock is a purple so dark it looks almost black. In sharp contrast, Shiro is too pale and fragile. Bruises and welts are blooming all around his hips in various colors, and his dark body hair is matted with jizz. His soft dick lays limp along the crease of his thigh, his balls following, but nothing can hide the angry pink flush of his abused hole. Stretched as it was moments ago, it still gapes a little over the tip of Sendak's cock like a plush glossy mouth teasing it with a kiss. 

Even as he watches, lube and leftover fluids are slowly dripping out and leaving trails down Sendak's impressive shaft, making it glisten for the camera. Sendak's hands reach around Shiro to hold his thighs wide apart. He easily shifts Shiro upright, so that Shiro's poised directly over him, back arched and his hole an eager swollen sleeve begging to be plundered. 

Sendak releases his grip in increments and Shiro doesn't have the strength to hold himself up. The higher gravity of the ship works against him, weighting him down. He watches, unable to look away, as Sendak's cock parts and impales his pliant flesh. 

Then the stretch hits him. Shiro's scream tears free this time, an animalistic wail, words impossible when his whole world is reduced to the invasion of Sendak's cock inside his ass, his guts, his chest. He claws blindly at Sendak's fur, at his own hair, incapable of dealing coherently with any of it. Each bump is a small mountain to push past and relax a fraction after, only to be stretched apart again on the next one. It goes on forever and is way too fast at the same time. 

Sendak growls low and fucks all the way into Shiro in one long, agonising push upward. 

Shiro's throws his head back and presses its crown to Sendak's shoulder, each exhale a billowed shout directed to the bright ceiling as devastating new sensations of fullness rackets through him. Shiro's belly feels taunt and his insides re-arranged, and the cock is so big it create a visible bulge in Shiro's stomach. Everything about it feels estranged and uncontrollable, shot nerves making Shiro shiver through hot and cold flashes. His head spins and his eyes can't focus. 

He's pretty sure he's zoning in and out, because his blinking feel a little too long.

Then Sendak thrusts into him with the force of a bull, lifting Shiro's body up with every push. Shiro is no more help than a landed fish, barely able to breath on his own. His body is sealed around Sendak, a tool in need of a guide, reduce to one purpose: to be used. 

Sendak's hips piston faster into Shiro, who bites his tongue to keep his teeth from clacking. Shiro loathes his cock when it starts to fill up again. He's been milked so often today he thinks next time he'll shoot blood. Of course, Sendak notices the semi when the televisions zooms on it, and he laughs. 

"Make yourself come," he orders, chin pressed to Shiro's sweaty temple, curled around him like he's Shiro's own throne.

Shiro brings clumsy hands to his dick and strokes it. One is crusted with blood and barely operational, but he figures he'll need all the help he can get. Shiro is removed from his body's reactions and shackled to them all at once. The cock unavoidably brushes Shiro's prostate, being so huge it is nudging _everything_ inside Shiro, but it's just another intense sensation radiating from Shiro's abdomen and not linked to pleasure or pain. It's just a fact, something happening to his body.

When Sendak ejaculates, Shiro groans loudly from the unique sensation of Sendak pumping his insides full of warm heavy come. 

It turns into a sobbed protest as Sendak continues to fuck him throughout his orgasm and seemingly right into the next one, barely growing softer. Shiro's hand presses over his own cock, trying to force something out of it, knowing this won't end until he does. He aches everywhere inward and out, and he rides the edge of a climax forever. Every time he thinks he's just close enough, the pain of Sendak's gigantic cock squeezing another firm ridge inside Shiro's hole makes him lose the necessary focus to finish. 

Shiro brings his better hand up and squeezes his breast, before tugging at his nipple, hard. It zaps pleasure-pain right down to his balls. Shiro moans and tilts his hips into Sendak's next push. 

Sendak licks Shiro's nape and reaches around to flick his claw over Shiro's other nipple. He plays with the nub, rolling it between enormous fingers, and Shiro shakes all over from the thunderstorm building inside of him. Sendak hums. Shiro only realises the hand touching him is Sendak' artificial arm when suddenly it flares up. It vibrates right over his nipples, reverberates on his breastbone, crackles down his ribs.

Shiro breaks.

On a cracked cry, he finally, finally comes, jizz sputtering out the head of his cock and leaking between his fingers, thin pearly white mixing with blood to drip around his hand. He's stares at it, trying to conjure up relief, or anger, or anything. He just feels drained.

Sendak's third wave follows some time after. Shiro's consciousness is foggy at best, his body a boneless receptacle welcoming everything it's given. He doesn't even register Sendak is done until he bites into Shiro's shoulder and his dick squelches one last time into the mess of Shiro's ass as he retreats. 

Shiro is aware of being raised off Sendak's softening cock. "No," he whispers, because he can't clench up anymore, and he doesn't want Sendak's come to slip out, and he misses Sendak's warmth. The blare of the crowd deafens anything Sendak might have said in reply.

Hands touch Shiro, and he says "no" again, over and over, even though he's doesn't know what he's refusing. Not that it'd matter.

He's lifted. The world spins one axis too many. Shiro welcomes darkness like an old friend.

***

Shiro wakes up to druids looming over him. 

He thrashes and screams. Bonds of purple energy slitter over him. Sleep darker than space claims him again and he's grateful.

***

When Shiro next wakes, he's on a cell cot, alone. One of his arms is swaddled in bandages but he can glimpse something shiny underneath. He doesn't peek.

There are bottles of clear liquids beside him and he's thirstier than he's ever been. Instead, he stares at the ceiling until he notices a source of light in the otherwise dark cell. An holosheet is in rest mode beside him. He picks it up and notices he's shaking. 

It's his file. An phenomenal amount of credits is attributed to his name. It is proportional to the new number next to his "victories:" statistic. They kept his past numbers of victories valid, and doubled the number for those he….

The alien characters beside his "Rank" have changed from Gladiator to Strike Soldier. The symbol for "Champion" appears at the beginning of his name. A reminder and a praise.

A handprint is required as proof of understanding. 

Shiro presses a palm to the holoscreen. His hand and the screen flash red. 

Shiro closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. 

 

The end.


End file.
